Oceans Of Fire
Hawkins shook his head at Calvin. “You are one sick dude.”
Gotron Khan was the man who was sick. The warlord was as white as a sheet.
McCarter gazed down at Khan condemningly. “Where are the rest of the nukes?”
“I…don’t…” Khan gasped.
McCarter pulled a spent grenade casing out of a ditty bag and wafted it in front of Khan. A hint of apple blossom and pepper was discernable in the close confines of the cellar. Khan made a gobbling noise as his stomach spasmed in recognition of the scent. It was said that fatigue made cowards out of all men, but pain and fatigue could be endured through training, personal toughness and willpower.
Chemically induced nausea leveled the playing field, and Adamsite gas would bring Superman to his knees.
Gotron Khan shook like a man who had spent a bad eight days sailing the North Sea in winter and had been told he was going back out.
“No…” Khan gasped. “N-no, please, I…”
McCarter held the spent casing a little closer to Khan’s nose. “Where.”
“I…cannot tell you.”
McCarter spun on his heel. “Gas him again.”
Gary Manning slipped a grenade out of his jacket and pulled the pin.
Khan shrieked. “No!”
The big Canadian kept his thumb on the cotter lever and raised an eyebrow at McCarter. The Englishman turned and stared down at Khan implacably. “Where?”
“I do not know, but—”
“But you might know someone who does?” McCarter suggested helpfully.
Khan’s eyes were riveted in horror at the cylindrical grenade in Manning’s hand. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps you’re about to puke so hard you’re going to bring up your bloody shoes.”
“No!” Khan’s eyes rolled in revulsion and terror.
“Or perhaps not.” McCarter shrugged noncommittally. “It’s up to you.”
“I—” Khan scuttled back as far as his restraints would let him as the Englishman loomed over him.
“Khan.” McCarter peered deeply into the man eyes. “I really want you to get this right.”
U.S. Embassy, Dushanbe
PHOENIX FORCE SAT in an arc around a titanium laptop attached to a satellite link. David McCarter checked his watch. “The lad’s late.”
T.J. Hawkins walked in on cue. He held an ice bucket loaded with drinks and set them on the table with a frown. “Explain to me how I became manservant for this chickenshit outfit, again?”
“Because you’re the youngest.” Calvin James reached over and snagged a beer. The lanky black man grinned. “And it would be politically incorrect for me or Rafe to do it.”
Hawkins considered for a half second suggesting Manning get up off his dead ass, but the big Canadian had put his feet up on the table and apparently was waiting for it with a smile on his face. Hawkins let that one die on the vine.
“T.J.?” McCarter pulled a bottle out of the bucket and frowned. “What is this?”
“Uh…a Coke?” Hawkins pointed at the wasp-waisted, fluted-glass bottle defiantly. “Look at that shape.”
McCarter stared at Hawkins unblinkingly. “It’s diet.”
Hawkins stared at the bottle. Aside from the Coca-Cola logo it was covered with incomprehensible scrawl. “You read Tajikistani?”
“No, Tajikistan doesn’t bottle Coke. They import from bottlers in Russia and the former Soviet states. This is Ukrainian, and diet. You can tell by the gold cap and the Cyrillic writing.”
Hawkins blinked. “You need an intervention.”
McCarter shoved the offending soft drink back into the bucket and pulled out a beer.
“Man…” Hawkins dropped into a chair and cracked himself a Russian brew. “How do I get transferred to Able Team?”
McCarter hit some keys on the computer. “Khan gave us two names.”A picture of a bullet-headed man appeared. His shaved head and his face had uniform-length stubble. His flat black eyes lived up to his nickname. “Here we have Sharypa ‘The Shark’ Sharkov. He’s Russian mafiya, and represents Moscow organized crime interests in Tajikistan. Interpol has a rap sheet on him as long as your arm. Standard provincial mafyia scumbag. He breaks legs, extorts, runs guns and prostitutes, and sends a piece to Moscow.”
“First we get ‘The Goat’ and now ‘The Shark’?” Rafe snorted in amusement. “All we need are Camelboy and the Limpet and we’ll have our own bad-guy petting zoo.”
McCarter hit another key. A disturbingly handsome man appeared on the screen. His black wavy hair was pulled into a short ponytail and his Vandyke made him look like Satan in an Armani suit. “This is Aidar Zhol, our local boy. He doesn’t have an animal nickname. He is an animal. Name a law of nature and he’s broken it. He likes the high life, likes gambling and spends a lot of time in Moscow. If you’re a Russian general or high-ranking politician and you want a beautiful, virgin Tajik girl fresh from the hills for your rape room, Zhol’s the man you see. He also owns a piece of any Afghani heroin that comes through the capital and owns the only casino in town. If you’re transporting nukes through Tajikistan, it’s a good bet Sharkov and Zhol at least know about it if they aren’t actually extracting a safe-passage fee. We have two devices unaccounted for. I’m betting either one or both of them have them or at least know which way they went.”
James took a long pull on his beer. “Russian nukes don’t just go missing. Someone has to deliberately misplace them.”
McCarter nodded. “MI-6 has an informant who broke the news about the nukes. There’s no doubt a Russian general had to be involved. The question is, which one? If these were actually nuclear warheads, we could narrow the selection down to officers of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces, but these are nuclear demolition charges. They aren’t governed by any treaty and several Russian military branches have their own small stockpiles, so tracking our wayward general is going to be tough on the Farm’s end.”
Hawkins leaned back in his chair. “So we’re going to have to find him starting from the gutter up. Typical.”
James echoed the sentiment. “Tell me we have some kind of in with these guys.”
“We just might,” McCarter stated.
James didn’t like the smile on the Englishman’s face. “Shit…”
“That’s right. Our in just might be you.” McCarter clicked more keys. A black man with a shaved head appeared on the screen. His powerful physique strained his immaculately tailored blue-silk suit. To the trained eye it was clear that he was wearing a pistol beneath his jacket. He sat at a table with a beautiful, grinning blonde under his left arm while a second leaned over his shoulder laughing. A massive diamond adorned one ear. Dozens more glittered on the gold rings on his fingers and the custom Rolex Submariner on his wrist.
Sitting next to him was Aidar Zhol. They both had their arms over each other’s shoulders and were smiling happily into the camera.
“That is Clayborne Forbes.” McCarter hit another button and the same man appeared staring forward, iron-jawed and stern, wearing the dress white cap and blue jacket of the United States Navy. Service ribbons adorned his chest. “Lieutenant Clayborne Forbes. Former United States Navy SEAL. A year ago he was on operations in Afghanistan. His tour was up and he declined to reenlist. Honorably discharged. The last that was heard of him was that he was an independent contractor in Afghanistan for one of the stateside security companies.”
“And now the brother is dripping in blondes and bling in Tajikistan.” James shook his head. “Bodyguard?”
“Ostensibly. The name Navy SEAL has a hell of a lot of cache. Having a man like Forbes for a bodyguard would certainly enhance Zhol’s reputation,” McCarter stated. “But the Farm figures he’s probably a hell of a lot more than that. In the past year most of Zhol’s competition has wound up dead. Now, I’ll grant you, what with the civil wars, ethnic in-fighting, separatist movements, Russian mafiya and Muslim extremists, the former Soviet South Asian states are the wild, wild west. But Zhol’s enemies aren’t dying in the usual drive-by bloodbaths or car bombings, they’re—”
“They’re getting ghosted,” James concluded. “SEAL style.”
“That is the current conclusion we’re working with.”
“I don’t like pulling the race card, David.” James’s eyes went hard. “But I don’t like being sent to hunt my own, know what I’m saying?”
“I can understand that, but we’re talking about a man aiding and abetting in heroin trafficking and selling little girls. There’s also the matter of two loose nuclear demolition charges. And if his name was Nigel Ian Smythe and former SAS, I’d be the one going in.”
James let out a long breath. “I hear you.”
“Zhol’s casino is called the Silk Road. When he’s in town he lives in the penthouse. Intelligence says Zhol is in town. It’s Friday night, so he’ll probably be in the house and Forbes should be with him. We need to arrange a meet-and-greet.”
McCarter gazed around the table. “Any suggestions?”
CHAPTER THREE
The game was Texas Hold’em. Calvin James was winning, and winning big. He stared coolly into the smoldering eyes of his remaining opponent. Everyone else had folded and it was James’s deal. The man in front of him was heavy-shouldered and wore a poorly tailored suit of local manufacture, and a short turban.
The man was a maniac.
In poker a maniac was a hyperaggressive player who raised, bet and bluffed big pots whether he had a great hand or nothing at all. A genuine maniac wasn’t a good player, though he or she could often dominate a timid table. Players who occasionally played maniac to confuse their opponents were quite dangerous.
James’s opponent was positively psycho.
The game had attracted a crowd. The Silk Road mostly attracted Russian businessmen and local women who were ready to be relieved of their hard-earned currency. A smattering of diplomats and ex-patriots rounded out the clientele. Onlookers gasped as the man in the turban shoved chips forward to the tune of ten thousand dollars. He leaned in and thrust out his jaw, daring James to match it. It was a form of tell, or a habit that gave away the strength of another player’s hand. The most amateur forms of tells involved leaning. People unconsciously leaned forward and projected aggressiveness when they were bluffing. By the same token they leaned back with unconscious relief when they were dealt a strong hand.
Psycho Boy might as well have put a neon sign over his head.
James’s piles of chips tinkled and spilled as he shoved ten thousand dollars forward. “Call.”
The maniac turned over his cards to reveal two pair, aces and eights, the Dead Man’s Hand.
James turned over his cards. “Four ducks.”
The man in the turban started stupidly at the four deuces on the table. James had cleaned him out, and reached for the pot. “Nice playing with y—”
“Cheat.”
The immediate environment around the table went dead silent. The man looked up from the cards with murder in his eyes. “You cheat.”
“Listen.” James held up both hands in peace. “I—”
“Blackie…cheat.” The man was literally vibrating with rage. “Every time you deal, you win.”
James took a calming breath. “Friend, you—”
“Cheating negro,” the man declared.
A mountainous pair of bouncers began moving toward the table.
James’s fist closed around his drink. “You know, not my country, not my house, not my cards. I don’t speak the language. Hell, I’m not even that good a player. I’m just lucky.”
“Luck!” The man spit the word.
“Yeah.” James leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Lucky to be sitting across from a loser like you.”
The man froze.
James took a dainty sip of his gin and waggled his eyebrows over his glass insultingly.
“Bismillah!” The man erupted from his seat. He screamed incoherently and grabbed the edge of the table. The crowd screamed as he heaved the poker table upward, flipping it over and sending chips and cards flying. “I kill!” the man shrieked. “Kill you!”
The bouncers descended, trying to smother the irate gambler with shear weight. The man in the turban seemed awkward, but his fist flew into one bouncer’s jaw and dropped him like he’d been shot. The other bouncer reached to grab the frothing man and was scooped up into a fireman’s carry, airplane spun and sent flying across the craps table. Furniture shattered and patrons ran screaming in all directions.
The demented gambler advanced on James, his fingers curled into claws. “Kill you! K—!”
James rose from his chair and flicked his wrist, sending two ounces of gin into his attacker’s eyes. Before the man could even react to the stinging liquor, the Phoenix Force commando’s fist pistonned three times in chopping right-hand leads. The first blow snapped the man’s head back. On the second, he turned his wrist over and jammed his thumb into the notch between the maniac’s collarbones. The man had no time to gasp as his throat compressed because the third punch took him in the solar plexus.
The turbaned man made a sucking noise and went pale. James grabbed him by his shoulder and spun him, seizing him by his collar and the back of his pants. He marched the blinking and wheezing man past cringing patrons to the front of the building.
He whispered in the maniac’s ear, “Sorry about this, Rafe.”
Encizo’s eyes rolled and drool came from one corner of his bloody mouth, but his voice was very quiet and lucid amid the chaos in casino. “No problem, amigo—”
James took two lunging steps for momentum and flung Encizo through the smoked-glass double doors. People outside the casino screamed as the Cuban flew to the pavement in a cascade of glass. He rolled to a stop and lay bleeding on the sidewalk.
“Punk,” James announced as he made a show of wiping his hands.
The cocktail waitresses were still screaming and casino patrons shouted in consternation. A pair of Indian businessmen stood clapping their hands delightedly at the show.
James smiled and took a bow.
Shotguns racked behind him. He put up his hands and very slowly turned. Clayborne Forbes was pointing a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver at his face. The weapon was a custom job, a product of the Smith & Wesson Performance Center. Its frame was made of titanium while the barrel and cylinder were stainless steel. James could clearly see the extra pair of holes that turned the revolver into an eight-shooter and the ugly lead cavities of the hollowpoints it had been stuffed with. For the average human, firing a Magnum with a two-inch barrel would be problematic at best.
Forbes didn’t look as though he’d have any problems.
He was even bigger in person, six-foot-four and built like an NFL tight end. His huge hand engulfed the grips of his pistol. Two more bloated, bearded bouncers flanked him, armed with enormous, 23 mm Russian KS-23, folding-stock shotguns.
“Well, goddamn.” Forbes blinked at James in surprise. Black men weren’t exactly common in Tajikistan. He lowered his revolver slightly. “You African or American?”
“African American.” James smiled. “Chicago, south-side born and raised.”
“No shit?” Forbes jerked his head toward a steel security door at the far end of the casino. “Follow me, Chicago.” He nodded at the bouncers. “Mukhtar, Askar, a round of drinks on the house and get this shit cleaned up, and find the brother’s chips.”
The two men lowered their shotguns and began shouting at the cocktail waitresses and the busboys. James followed Forbes into a standard casino security suite with banks of monitors watching the action at every table. Three security men stared up from their screens at James in open curiosity.
Forbes sighed. “Gonna have to relieve you of that piece.”
James nodded and reached under his jacket. He drew his Heckler & Koch P-9 from the concealed small-of-the-back holster he wore and handed it over. Forbes took in the big .45’s rakish lines appreciatively. “Nice.”
Forbes’s gleaming revolver rose to James’s face and the cylinder full of gaping, 125-grain hollowpoints turned as Forbes cocked back the hammer. “Now, you want to tell me what you’re doing in my crib? Or do I call in Mukhtar and Askar and have them squash it out of you?”
James leaned back slightly from the .357’s muzzle and held up his hands. “Heard a rumor a brother was getting ahead up north and came to see for myself.”
“Now that’s the kind of rumor that can get your ass killed. You—” Forbes suddenly stared at the ring on James’s finger. It was gold and carved with an eagle holding a trident and an anchor. It was the symbol of the United States Navy SEAL. Forbes’s face went flat. “If that ain’t for real, I’m going to cut it off you at the wrist.”
James grinned delightedly at a similar ring on Forbes’s gun hand. “Oh, man, you’re shitting me!”
The security men stared uncomprehendingly as the two men began a sudden, rapid exchange of Navy SEAL–speak involving teams, operations, mutually known naval officers and the halcyon days of BUDS, or basic underwater demolitions/SEAL student training.
After about five minutes of family reunion, Forbes holstered his pistol. “Well, fuck me running. Calvin James, you know I think I might even have heard of you at a SEAL meet or two.”
It was entirely possible. James and Forbes were two different generations of SEAL, but the United States Navy SEALs were a small, tightly knit community and African-Americans an even tinier minority within them. SEAL meets were get-togethers where SEALs past and present met to swap stories and gossip, engage in miniature SEAL-style Olympic events and down enormous quantities of alcohol.
“Man, they say you just up and disappeared one day, went all spooky. Got recruited by a special operations group or some other kind of top-secret black ops shit. Dropped off the Earth.”
The best lies were told by omission and cradled in truth. “That is a fact.”
Forbes handed James back his pistol. “And you came all the way here just to see my sweet ass? I mean, I know I’m pretty…” Forbes left his doubt hanging between them.
“I was retired for a while, and I really didn’t care for it. Then the Man asked if I would like to reenlist for the War on Terror. I took a year contract, the coin was decent, but I heard the private work was better. Hired on with Knight Securities to help train their newbies.”
“Heard of them,” Forbes acknowledged.
“But I got all nostalgic and shit, and decided I wanted to see some action.”
“Always a mistake.”
“Don’t I know it.” James shrugged. “So I hit the dirt in Iraq. Hadn’t been there in years. It was still 115 degrees in the shade, still infested with sand fleas and a brother still couldn’t get a piece of ass to save his life, but the car bombings, private security boys being dragged and hung from bridges and the hostage beheading? That shit was new. I didn’t dig it, so I went to Afghanistan. Lot of guys were making money in the private sector over there, double or more than what Uncle Sam was paying. Then one day in Kabul, I heard that rumor about a brother living large in Tajikistan. Sounded so crazy it had to be true.” James opened his hands, taking in the cut of Forbes’s suit and the diamonds and gold dripping from his hands. “And here you are.”
Forbes frowned. “You sayin’ you came here for a job?”
“You hiring?” James countered.
Forbes’s laughter rumbled in his chest. “Well, now, I’ll tell you. I got this town shit-scared. These Tajiks never seen a soul brother, much less soul brother SEAL. Shit, two of us? We could take this whole cracker-barrel country for every last somoni they got.
“Somoni?”
“Yeah, it’s the currency they replaced the Russian ruble with around here.” Forbes shook his head. “I wipe my ass with it.” He dug into his pocket and held up a gold money clip thick with U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills. “The good news is this gig pays in long, cool green.”
One of the security men nodded respectfully at the big man. “Mr. Forbes.”
One of the monitors showed Encizo lurching to his feet. His turban was askew and his eyes rolled dazedly.
Forbes lifted his chin. “You want me to jack him up?”
“I already did.” James flashed his smile. “And I took him for 10 K.”
Encizo staggered away into downtown Dushanbe, bleeding and mumbling.
“Well, brother, I feel the love. I surely do.” Forbes loomed forward. “But you are going to need references, and then you are going to have to meet the Man.”
“CALVIN’S IN.” McCarter confirmed.
“Excellent.” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman said over the satellite link. “How did the initial insertion go?”
McCarter looked across the table to where Encizo sat holding a chemical ice pack against his lumped and purpled jaw. “Smoothly.”
Kurtzman’s brow furrowed at McCarter across the Web cam. “He’s not wearing a wire, is he?”
“Calvin said to get the love he’s got to show the love, and with a SEAL running security, wearing a wire would be suicide. I agreed with him. T.J. is watching the casino and will engage in a loose tail when he emerges. Rafe and I are ready to move on word go, and Jack has a helicopter hot on the pad with a full war load at the Dushanbe airport. Any other action is Calvin’s call.”
Kurtzman scratched his beard. “You know you’ve put that man out on a limb.”
“The good news is that he has the best cover in the world, and that is his cover isn’t a cover. He is who he says he is. The head honcho over at Knight Securities is a former SEAL, knows Calvin and was happy to back up his private contract story. Anything else Calvin can ad-lib as the situation warrants. Also, Special Forces groups are clannish, thick as thieves. Forbes is a United States Navy SEAL, and he’s got to be as giddy as a schoolboy to suddenly have a fellow SEAL as a partner in crime. On the criminal front, Forbes has done yeoman’s work decimating Zhol’s enemies, so Zhol has every reason to want to double his fun.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You get paid not to like it, Bear, and we appreciate that.”
Kurtzman sighed. “When does Calvin have his interview with Zhol?”
McCarter glanced at his watch. “He should be meeting the man as we speak.”
“AN AMERICAN SEAL?” Aidar Zhol’s eyes looked Calvin James up and down. The crime lord sat in the casino office. The walls were covered with crushed-red velvet. His thronelike chair was red leather, and the wood of his desk and the carpet matched. Zhol was dressed from head to toe in black. He sat in his blood-red room, draping himself elegantly across his chair, and looked positively satanic.
“Man, did you see the security tape of him whipping that deadbeat’s ass?” Forbes waved a hand. “What else could he be? Besides, I’ve checked his references. He’s who he says he is.”
“Indeed, I do not doubt you.” Zhol leaned back in his chair. His deep voice and accent made him sound like Dracula. “Though he seems a bit small to be a bouncer.”
“I’m not suggesting you hire him as a bouncer, and you aren’t thinking it.” Forbes leaned his massive frame against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “The brother has skills, know what I’m saying?”
Zhol lifted a sculpted eyebrow. “As good as yours?”
“Well, he is old-school SEAL,” Forbes conceded with a grin. “But I can bring him up to speed.”
Zhol’s eyes were unreadable. “And you, Mr. James. What kind of employment are you looking for?”
“Well, like Clay said. I am old school. I gotta start thinking about my retirement. Now, I got some money squirreled away, and I can always sit my ass behind a desk at a security firm. For that matter I’ve got that Navy pension waiting for me. But you know?” James shook his head in disgust. “Fuck that shit. I’m thinking I want to shrivel up and die someplace warm, with a beach and a boat and a lot of willing señoritas as a comfort in my old age. That’ll take some investment money. Honestly? I came up here looking for some fat paychecks.”
A slinky cocktail waitress entered the office with a loaded tray. Her hair was so black and her skin so pale she looked like a vampire. Her lips were blood-red against her complexion. Her dark eyes slid up and down James in a very friendly fashion as she handed him a gin and tonic. Forbes lifted an immense snifter of brandy from the tray and a cigar from an open box. Zhol took mint tea from a gold cup and an unfiltered Turkish cigarette between his little and ring fingers. The girl lit their smokes. One corner of her lips quirked upward and she gave James a lingering look before swiftly disappearing.